


Certain As We Wax and Wane

by JenevaJensen



Series: The Beauty in Deadly Things [5]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Babies, Breastfeeding, F/M, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Game of Thrones Fix-It, House Baratheon, House Stark, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Intimacy, Marriage, Minor Original Character(s), Minor Podrick Payne/Sansa Stark, Original Character(s), Post - A Game of Thrones, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Reunion Sex, Sail away with me, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-11-07 13:58:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20818430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenevaJensen/pseuds/JenevaJensen
Summary: Arya spent a year away from Storm's End trying to come to terms with the idea of having her own child. What decision will she take?





	1. Dark of the New

Arya sat in the bed beside her sister who was suckling her latest child—a delicate auburn-haired girl named Briesa. “This one is going to be my last. I’m capturing as much of her babyhood as I can,” Sansa explained with a fierce, protective smile. Arya raised her brow in a silent question. 

“Pod loves them all but…I think…he loves me more,” Sansa admitted glancing at Arya shyly, her expression self-conscious and vaguely apologetic. “Each time I do this he finds it harder. And it is harder. My body isn’t as resilient as it was. It’s had more than its share of being resilient, truthfully.”

“You have just what Father and Mother had now,” Arya observed, reaching out a finger to stroke the baby’s hair, “Three boys, two girls.”

Sansa nodded, musing, “A family of seven. Maybe that’s why I feel like it’s all right if I stop.” 

As she shifted the baby to her other breast, she examined her sister’s face carefully. This had been an unanticipated visit. Arya had been gone from Westeros for a little over a year and it was plain that she was taking the long route back to Storm’s End. She’d been to Jon briefly before coming to Winterfell. His small family hadn’t expanded further, but Arya had shared that Jon had seemed utterly contented—a miraculous feat in and of itself as far as Jon was concerned, Sansa thought, trying to imagine her taciturn, brooding brother-cousin contented.

“You said that Pod loves you more…” Arya began hesitantly.

A spark of insight struck in Sansa’s mind, “Is that what’s making you more than usually strange and oddly pensive?” she remarked, “Has Gendry asked for something you don’t want?”

Arya vehemently shook her head in denial. “He’s never asked! Not once! Ever! It’s all me! Ever since he got sick, I’ve found myself thinking about having one of these!” Gesturing at the baby, Arya flopped backwards against the mattress in despair.

Sansa’s jaw dropped. When she could marshal her thoughts she asked, “Never? Not once?”

Arya shook her head. 

Sansa looked into her daughter’s face and offered, her voice quiet but decisive, “Then I think it’s pretty clear that he loves you more than he wants more children.”

Arya sat up beside her, angry tears in the corners of her eyes, “That’s just it, Sansa! I think I love him more than I don’t want a baby!”

Sansa brushed her fingers along her sister’s hot, teary face, “Babies grow, Arya. They don’t stay babies forever. You’ve had two of his children in your life for nearly five years and by all accounts they’re turning out well. I certainly thought well of them when you brought them here. They’re nearly women grown. Tyrion Lannister wrote asking if I thought there was a good way to approach the pair of you about marriage alliances.” Seeing the expression of distaste distort Arya’s features, Sansa added, “I think he was apprehensive that you—_specifically you_—might suddenly appear out of the shadows in King’s Landing and stab him if he broached the subject badly.”

Arya looked indignant, “I hope you told him where to shove his marriage alliances!” 

“More diplomatically,” Sansa smiled, “But, yes.” Her mind was spinning as she considered the notion of Arya with a child. Practically speaking, Arya was immediate kin to the rulers of the three largest regions in Westeros. Jon wasn’t a king of course, but, Sansa reckoned, he’s the closest thing to it the Free Folk had. Gendry being the son of the former king gave him a better claim than Bran to the Six Kingdoms. If they _did_ have a child and this experiment of elected monarchy fell apart…. Sansa’s brow wrinkled contemplating the possibilities. 

Briesa had fallen asleep. As Arya fumed silently, Sansa rose from the bed, laying the baby in the cradle. Adjusting her gown, she turned back to the bed, and in her best Queen of the North voice commanded, “Name the doubts, Arya.”

“I’ve never wanted to be pregnant. Or have a baby. Or raise a baby. Or spend time with babies. Maybe I won’t love one if it comes. Or I won’t be able to have one at all. Things have happened to me that might make it…hard. What if I can make one but I can’t carry one? And that disappoints him over and over again. And then I get angry with his disappointment and myself because I can’t make him happy. And it eats up our lives until there’s nothing left of each other but sadness and regret. That I’ll stop being me and he’ll stop being him. That he’ll die and I’ll never have known what it’s like to have a child with him—that he’ll never know what it’s like to wait for child knowing it’s coming. He’s never had that.” She took a deep breath, “Or, that _I’ll_ die and there will be nothing left of me for him to hold on to.”

Sansa wrapped her arms around Arya’s shoulders, “If he’s never brought it up, he must have come to terms with that last fear quite some time ago,” she advised gently, “Is it because _you_ nearly lost _him_ that you’re suddenly ascribing that fear to _him_? He knew exactly who you were when he wed you, out there in the Godswood. He’d already fully committed himself to you without expecting even that.” Sansa rested her chin on Arya’s shoulder, rubbing her arm and rocking her as if she were one of the children. They were still sitting like that when the door cracked open and Pod appeared. He paused uncertainly in the doorway, his eyes widening with silent questions. Arya wiped her eyes, pulling away from her sister. Sansa’s eyes held an entirely silent side-conversation with her husband as she volunteered, “Arya has just spent a year at sea having—almost—the same argument with herself that you and I have been having since Rickard was born.” Pod bobbed his head sympathetically, taking her meaning exactly. “The trouble is, my love, she hasn’t told Gendry anything about it.”

Podrick sat in one of the chairs near the fire, peered into the cradle at his sleeping daughter, a contemplative smile flickering briefly. He looked up, locked eyes with Arya and explained, “I serve at the Queen’s pleasure. We made them because she wanted them. _She_ needed them. I only wanted her. Wanted her even if we’d never kissed, never touched, never done anything more than spend time together: that seemed likely once—because of before. I’m happy every day that we have them. And I’m happy we’re not having more. Something inside her needed to collect them like evidence of our love. All I needed was for her not to make my love the death of her. Finding the place where those contradictions could live together without breaking either of us…it’s the hardest part of a marriage.”

Understanding blossomed in the depths of Arya’s eyes. She sprang from the bed, embracing her brother-in-law with a fierceness that astonished him. He patted her back, softly, eyeing his wife with upraised eyebrows over Arya’s shoulder. 

“I like him,” Arya said, offhandedly to Sansa, clapping Podrick on the shoulder as she let him go, “Good choice on your part. Well done.”

“So glad you approve,” Sansa remarked snidely, the love in her eyes and smile playing at her lips belying her tone as she met Pod’s eyes and blushed. Arya was on the move to the door. “So…?” Sansa queried after her. 

Arya turned, “You’ll know when I know. But I’ll be leaving for Storm’s End tomorrow.”


	2. Waxing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya returns to Gendry at Storm's End with a new adventure for them both at the front of her mind.

She found him banging a hammer in the forge when she arrived at Storm’s End. She watched his arms and shoulders flex and strain as he worked at fashioning a blade, the song of the metal being struck ringing in her ears. He was soot-covered and sweaty and, when she crept up behind him, smelled exactly as he did in her earliest memories. She threaded one arm around his waist, her fingers inveigling their way into the front of his breeches as she mouthed the sweat from the join of his neck and shoulder. He’d stilled immediately, hammer mid-air, warning, “If that isn’t my wife, I’d suggest removing your fingers before she comes back and deprives you of them.” Arya chuckled against his shoulder blade and he set the hammer down with a clang, turning, a broad smile lighting his face. Brushing the hair from her temple, he leaned to kiss her ravenously. “You could send word, you know,” he commented, his voice low, between kisses, “not every return has to be a complete surprise.”

Arya traced his jaw with her fingers, “I like seeing your face when you aren’t expecting me. It’s part of what makes being away from you worth it.” He’d kissed her again and, somehow, she’d ended up perched on the anvil, their bodies rubbing against one another, tongues battling and hands searching until the sound of metal crashing to the floor brought them to their senses. Eyes hooded with desire, they’d both turned to see a wide-eyed, flustered, and deeply apologetic smith stuttering, “My Lord! My Lady! I had no idea…I’m…Didn’t mean to interrupt…” The man, crimson-faced, bowed himself backwards out of the forge. Arya buried her face in Gendry’s shoulder shaking with laughter and he clasped his strong hands around her waist, lifting her down off the anvil and holding her against him. Smiling, he planted another kiss on her forehead before suggesting, “Let’s give him another minute to clear out. Poor man. But the secret’s out now. You’re home. Everyone will want you. This,” he grabbed her backside playfully, “Will have to wait until after dinner.”

Arya groaned, tucking her shirt back into her breeches, “Now you understand why I usually turn up in the middle of the night,” she kissed him again, “Gives us time for it to be just us.”

The kitchens had outdone themselves on short notice for the evening meal. The Round Hall was crowded, the girls were merry, and the entire Keep could see that their Lord and Lady had eyes only for one another. Rumors of their interrupted tryst in the forge had made their way about—as rumors were wont to do—and a suppressed amusement bubbled just under the surface of every glance and toast. If the throng had been able to see under the high table, their jokes would have turned quite bawdy—Arya’s hand strayed into Gendry’s lap while his meandered up her thigh at various points throughout the meal. Fyffe, who had recently attained her twelfth year and had developed an eye for romance amongst her own set, caught them playing with each other's hands while seemingly preoccupied in conversation with the steward who had approached to talk to them across the table. When he’d walked away, she’d overheard her father muttering to Arya, “I haven’t any idea what he just said. I hope you do. I’ll need to know tomorrow.” She’d hidden a smile under her hand and felt warm inside. Where many children would find such a display between their parents off-putting, Fyffe thought only of how cute it was that for all their outward presentation of propriety, after all the time they’d known one another, Papa and Arya were still as distracted by one another as people her own age. Her eyes darted to one of the handsome young squires eating with his friends at a table along the side of the hall. She wielded her eyelashes to excellent effect and the boy raised his cup to her, with a nod. She flushed. She loved how love inclined others to love. 

As soon as they could reasonably manage, Arya and Gendry retired. They ran through the corridors and up the stairwells like children at play, darting into doorways to tag each other with kisses, or pausing in a deserted hall to steal a caress or embrace or just stare into one another’s eyes, longingly. By the time they reached the Lord’s apartments, they were breathless with want, tearing their clothes off the moment they crossed the threshold and shedding them haphazardly across the solar as they made their way to the bedchamber. 

She was beneath him, gulping his kisses and he was teasing her with the tip of his cock when she decided. Breaking their kiss apart, she traced a single finger up along the line of his nose, across his brow, and down along his jaw, cupping his face above her own, holding him; studying him. His eyes were dark, wanting, but as he registered the intensity of her gaze they lightened and the motion of his hips stilled. Heart racing, he leaned his forehead against hers, eyes closed, collecting himself; his breath easing, his fingers caressing the side of her face and neck. 

“Gendry?” she whispered, and his eyes met hers again, “I’m not scared of anything, much, anymore. I’ve been so far, seen the world through so many eyes, worn many faces. But I’m scared of this.” A look of concern passed over his face and he moved to pull away. She didn’t let him, smoothing the concern away with her fingertips. “Not _this_,” she flexed her hips briefly, “But…I think that’s why I want to do it,” she went on in a rush. “I mean, I want to do it because I love you, and you’re a wonderful father, and I know that you’ll always help me be me no matter what. There’s no guarantee that I even can. But I want to try.” His puzzled expression made her realize that she was rambling. He didn’t understand. She inclined her head towards the scrollwork box resting in its usual place on the nightstand, “I never take moon tea while I'm away--there's no need...and I’m not going to start taking it now,” she concluded.

Sansa had been right all those years ago when she’d said that knowing you were trying could add something to the act, Arya thought, feeling blissfully replete sometime later. Gendry had loved her hard and breathless and when, as he was nearing the end, she’d looked deep into his eyes and breathed: “I want to know what it’s like. Give me a baby, Gendry.” He’d spent himself inside her with a relentless intensity she didn’t think she’d ever before experienced. He’d gently held her folds closed—when he at last pulled out—not allowing any of his seed to go to waste. The absurdity of the gesture brought a wry smile to her lips, but his warm hand remained cupped between her thighs, his legs curled under hers, elevating her hips as he slept. She hadn’t realized this was something he wanted as much as he apparently did. He’d never said. The only conversation they’d ever had about it was in those precious few days aboard her ship on the way to Oldtown. He’d never mentioned it again but he’d obviously meant it when he used the word “thrilled.” Arya wondered whether she shouldn’t have said anything at all. She’d raised hopes that he’d never shared to the surface and she wasn’t even sure her body could follow through. But then she wouldn’t have known that this mattered to him. And it was a choice she’d made to try—that was precious enough knowledge in itself—he deserved to know that she wanted to try. 

~~~~~~~

Arya was shocked at how quickly they were successful. It might even have been that first night of her return, for shortly past the turn of the moon, during early morning sparring practice with Tytha, she found herself darting to the edge of the training grounds to vomit. “You’re not well?” Tytha asked, her brow wrinkled in concern as she dropped her blade in the sand and came to check on her. Arya wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, spit, and waved her away saying, “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. But we’ll call a halt to sparring this morning. I’ll go see Maester Brymar.” 

~~~~~~~

“I’m certain you’ll tell me if you mind the question,” the Maester began, dryly, “But you and Lord Baratheon have been wed several years. Why are you coming to me about this now, my Lady?”

The look Arya threw at him would have made a less confident man shit himself. “I haven’t flowered regularly since these,” she gestured at the scars on her abdomen, “I was taking moon tea. Now I’m not.” Almost as an afterthought she added, “And it matters now.”

The Maester fixed her with a beady eye. “It should have mattered before you stopped taking the moon tea. I’ll explain what I’m doing as I do it. But I’ll have to touch you to examine you, my Lady.” Arya nodded; her brow anxious as she bit her lower lip. 

~~~~~~~

**3 Moons**

“When do we tell the girls?”

“Soon.”

“Are you thinking about names?”

“Are you?”

“Can we tell them yet?”

“Soon.”

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Soon.”

“Can we tell them?”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

“Show me.”

~~~~~~~

**6 Moons**

“Seems decadent and indulgent when I’ve no intention of feeding the baby myself,” Arya frowned.

Gendry, his face buried between her larger breasts, emitted a muffled, “Please?” 

“I’ll think about it,” she said, stroking his hair. 

“It’s just,” he said, one hand cupping, weighing and balancing her right breast as he nibbled at her left nipple, “you’re always beautiful…but these changes…the reason why your body’s different…” his left hand lowered, spreading itself over her belly, fingers massaging gently, “it’s something I’ve never had before. I’m greedy. I want all of it.”

“Even mother’s milk?” she asked skeptically.

Gendry grinned and said rapturously, “Straight from the breast as the gods intended, milady!” His tone changed and he reasoned, “You’d gut the woman if I asked the wet-nurse.”

She shoved him sideways and he collapsed laughing beside her on the bed. 

After a moment she caught his hand in hers and pressed it, firmly, against her lower left side. “Hello, Stranger,” she whispered. Gendry looked up at her, aghast, “When you talk to her—him—_them_\---in your head, you think _that_?”

Arya looked at him, seriously, “What else? There’s someone here, you can feel it—a Stranger. I don’t know anything but that they exist. They’ll arrive, and they’ll still be a Stranger, until they aren’t. Our job is to make them welcome in the hope that they don’t leave us wanting.” She said it as though it were a fundamental tenant of her Faith. She’d never before struck him as being terribly Faith-filled and it was evident that her answer bothered him. He’d gotten up from their bed and begun pacing the room. 

“But isn’t it asking for bad luck?” he asked, one hand scratching at the back of his head as he turned. 

“I used to think The Stranger was another name for Death,” Arya replied, “But I don’t anymore. The Stranger is The Unknown.” She scowled at his expression saying, “You’re the southron boy! I shouldn’t have to explain your own gods to you!”

“Try.”

She huffed, thinking for a moment. “Death has many faces. One of them is The Stranger. The Many-Faced God has many faces. One of them is The Stranger. Sometimes The Stranger is Death, but sometimes Death comes wearing the face of The Father’s Justice, The Mother’s Mercy, The Warrior’s Might, The Maiden’s Beauty, The Crone’s Wisdom, or, even, The Smith’s Creation. How many times have you crafted something that you know will bring death? Death is everywhere and all, always. But it is certain. The Unknown isn’t. It’s always out there on the edge somewhere. That’s where possibility lies.”

“But this time it’s here?” he asked curiously, sitting again on the edge of the bed and tapping his fingers gently on the swell of her belly. 

Arya nodded, entwining her fingers with his. Bending his face to hers, he kissed her lightly before disclosing, “Whenever you’re exploring possibility with me, I’m a deeply contented man.”

~~~~~~~

**8 moons**

Arya shifted against the pillows, stuck one clenched fist behind her and knuckled it against her lower back, grimacing. 

“Sore?” Gendry asked, sympathetically.

She nodded her head vigorously, twisting, trying to find some position that would grant relief. 

“Come here,” he said, rising from the chair he’d been seated in, holding out his hands, helping her to rise from the bed. She scowled at him. 

“It’s all so…unwieldy,” she complained, “I’m not remotely graceful when I go through my waterdance anymore.”

Gendry smiled at her, shaking his head, “I don’t know about that. Watching you this morning… you looked beautiful, stretching and spinning.” His eyes were soft. Arya made a rude sound and smacked him, teasingly, in the belly. “I’m up. And my back still hurts. What are you volunteering to do about it?”

“Lean on the sideboard,” he said, coming up behind her.

She braced her lower arms and looked back at him over her shoulder with a quirked eyebrow and a knowing look, “Oh, like that is it?”

“No,” he said, palms of his hands brushing upwards and around the curve of her shoulder blades before pressing his fingers slowly and firmly along either side of her spine as he brought them lower. She leaned forward into her arms, resting her forehead, sighing. When he reached her lower back and the two divots marking the join of her hips and pelvis, she groaned, pushing back against his fingers and said, “There. Don’t move.” The sound she’d made had been very much like the one she’d make when he’d first sheath himself inside her—it set his cock to throbbing. He pressed his thumbs tight into those pressure points, rubbing circles into them the same way he did the nub that brought her pleasure, but harder. She swayed her hips slightly before him—making him lick his lips—as she continued arching back against the pressure and making little moans like he was doing something right. He felt some of the tension she was holding start to give way. His cock was hard now and as he leaned in providing more pressure and resistance against her, she felt it. 

“So it _is_ like that…,” she smirked. He was about to bluster a denial when she surprised him saying, “Alright then, but only under the condition that you keep up the pressure _exactly_ where you had it.” She pushed down her smallclothes and, kicking them away, spread her stance slightly, bracing herself again against the sideboard. 

“We don’t have to…,” he began, his heart racing at the sight of her, bent over, ready for him.

“Fuck me already, Gendry,” she said. He didn’t have to be asked twice. Shucking his breeches to the floor, he’d grasped her hips, thumbs settling and pressing as she’d dictated. She’d groaned again in satisfaction as he did so. Lining himself up at her entrance, he’d prodded himself against her, teasing, delving deeper slowly, allowing her body to take him gradually. She was such a tiny woman and she was _so full_ already, he thought. She was pushing back against him now, and he alternated quick, shallow thrusts with slower, deeper ones. He felt her thigh muscles clench and stroked one hand firmly up and down her back, while the other maintained pressure and guided her hips back along his length. In no time, she cried out beneath him, and, legs shuddering, one gave out. He caught her out of the fall, steadying her. Holding on to the sideboard with one hand, and shaking her right leg out, she looked at him ruefully saying, “Leg cramp. Can’t stand on it.” Eyeing his continued cockstand with evident appreciation she said, “But I still want to. Can we try, maybe, sitting?”

He eyed her belly doubtfully, “With that between us?”

“Let’s try the other way ‘round,” Arya suggested, “Help me to the bed?”

He swung her into his arms as if she weighed nothing at all and she couldn’t help but giggle. She felt massive and awkward, but he made her feel light as a feather. He sat on the edge of the bed with her in his arms and kissed her enthusiastically before shifting—spreading her legs either side of his own. His arms came around her, alternately fondling her breasts and caressing the mound of her belly. She reached one hand between them, stroking him gently. He growled, bending his mouth to her neck and lavishing it with open-mouth kisses. When he was panting at her neck, she guided him to her entrance once more, tilting her hips. Both of his hands cupping and stroking the sides of her extended stomach, he rocked forward into her and she sighed as he filled her. They moved slowly, her head thrown back against his shoulder, arms encircling his head, nails scratching shivers across his scalp and neck. When she came for the second time, she felt the child in her belly stretch itself against the spasm of her pleasure. She gasped, feeling Gendry’s hands tighten around her belly—surprised at the movement himself. In awe at the myriad sensations she breathed, “Don’t finish yet. Please? I want to feel that again.” He stilled immediately, his breath ragged across her neck, his chest heaving behind her as he mastered himself: he’d been just at the edge and that _feeling_ had nearly thrown him over. When his breathing slowed and he knew he could again take his time, he did. And when Arya felt herself nearing the end, she placed her hands over his where they cradled their child inside her. She turned her head to watch his face—and met his steady, loving gaze. She clenched tight around him for the third time; he pulsed hard inside her, and their child stretched again, under their hands, like a starfish. 

Wonder.  
Reverence.  
Veneration.  
They gazed at each other rapt, in silence, tears flowing, for many minutes. 

When at last they could speak, Gendry began, thumbing the tears from her cheeks, “I had _no idea_…”

“…it could be like _that_,” Arya concluded, her thumb tracing the curve of his lips, “It was as if we were gods making the universe and it—shifted.” Sansa had tried to tell her, once. She’d said, “There’s nothing quite like feeling your man and the child he’s given you moving inside you at the same time. And there’s nothing like his face when he’s inside you and he can feel it moving too.” For the first time, Arya thought she understood why people were willing to go through this more than once. It was for that. And she’d never have known if she hadn’t…

“Thank you,” Gendry murmured, kissing her temple.

“Thank _you_,” she whispered back.


	3. Light of the Full

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Gendry meet their child.

**Birth**

“He stays,” Arya dictated, teeth clenched. She was in the Lady’s apartments that she’d only rarely slept in, pillows bolstering her back and pain clenching itself across her abdomen and lower back in spasms of increasing duration and frequency. One of the midwives was attempting to shoo Gendry out of the bedchamber. “He. Stays,” she repeated, fiercely. The woman’s eyes widened. 

Gendry shrugged at the woman, keyed-up but attempting nonchalance, “Guess I’m staying. Can’t argue with milady—she’s a wicked thing with a blade. Or a dagger…” his eyes widened and dodging, he pushed the woman sideways as a cup of water came sailing past their heads. With a good-humoured grin, he continued, “Or a cup! As you can plainly see.” The woman shook her head at him as if he were insane and with a fearful look backwards at Arya, fled the room. 

“_I’m_ used to you both, but perhaps you could refrain from frightening away the few extra hands I have need of for the duration, if you please?” counseled Maester Brymar.

Gendry nodded his head apologetically as he approached the foot of the bed. Raising a quizzical eyebrow at Arya he stated, “I promise to behave myself, but, as you are well aware Maester, I wouldn’t dare make any promises on behalf of my wife.” He watched her jaw clench and her hands rubbing ceaselessly across the mound of her belly as if she were trying to scrub away the lines of pain inside her. “Especially today,” he added quietly. A roar of thunder crashed outside the Keep and the winds of an autumn gale pounded the waves against the shore.

This was the only wish he had left that he’d thought sure would never be granted. And he’d been fine with it. She loved him. She’d come back to him. She loved and defended his children as if they were her own. She married him. She came back to him again and again and again. But then she’d come home nine moons ago and thrown all her “_that’s not me’s_” out the window; commanding a child of their own. He still half-believed that night was a dream. And now… He recalled sitting with Podrick the night they waited for Catrya to be born. The fear was potent, riding high in his chest right under every beat of his heart. He was glad he wouldn’t be outside the battle—waiting, unseeing—but he felt himself ill-equipped regardless. 

Tytha appeared in the doorway with an armload of towels and a stern expression on her face. “What’s this I hear about you waging war on the midwives?”

Gendry beckoned her into the room, “They were trying to get rid of me and milady wouldn’t have it.”

Tytha snorted, “Serves them right, then.” She placed the towels where the Maester indicated and sat near the fire. “Should I stay?” 

Arya nodded at her, breathing heavily through her nose as another pain wound its’ way around her body. Tytha glanced at her father, to confirm. “If you want to stay, Snowsquall, I won’t object. But if Fyffe suddenly turns up…” he glanced at Arya who was vehemently shaking her head at him. “That’s what I thought,” he said, “If Wildfire shows up, you’ll have to go with her.” Tytha and Gendry exchanged a knowing look. They all loved Fyffe, but it was clear to everyone in the room that her temperament and Arya’s would not be compatible in the current circumstances.

Many hours later, the storm still raging, sweaty and exhausted, gripping Gendry’s—likely bruised—fingers, Arya pushed a dark haired, round-faced, grey-eyed and furious young lady out of her body and into the world. There was a crack of lightning and the baby squalled immediately, going red-in-the-face and shaking her tiny arms as if doing so might bend the world to her will. Arya starred at her as Maester Brymar cleaned her off on the blankets between her legs, and handed Gendry the knife that would separate them from one another. Gendry looked at Arya’s face, glanced back at the Maester and said, “She’s better with knives than me.” Her fingers were shaking with exhaustion, but he helped her wrap her hand around the knife and held the cord taut as she cut their daughter free. Gendry scooped her into his arms immediately and as she clasped her tiny hand around his finger, he looked like joy incarnate. Arya lay back on the pillows. She felt a victory unlike any she’d felt before. In some ways that final push had felt as she did when she was hurtling through the air towards the Night King—as futile and endless as the battle before but resolved that it was the only hope of making any of it stop. But the shattering—the fall to the ground—the cascade of a person into the world—was entirely different. She’d taken lives. Many lives. And now she’d made one. How much more work it had been to create. How easy, how terribly, _terribly_ easy it would be, to take. 

When Gendry looked over at her she was shaking, sobbing. He handed the baby to the Maester and pulled her against him, rocking her in his arms and whispering endless endearments into her ear. She clung to him as though he were her only anchor in a wild thrashing sea. 

Gendry turned anxious eyes on Maester Brymar. “It’s a lot,” the maester observed, “She’s a strong woman, but she’s worn out. And she’s older than most—doing this for the first time.” Gendry held her close until she stopped shaking. When he looked down at her, she’d fallen asleep. “First time for everything,” he thought. She’d always been wakeful—from the first moment he knew her—and nothing had changed. Usually he fell asleep before she did, or he would awaken to find her thinking in the bed beside him, or moving about their room, busy. Rarely did he ever have the opportunity to watch her fully at rest. He lifted her from the bed so that the maids could change the bedding and she nestled into his arms. He sat holding her until the bed was clean, and then, dismissing the others, laid her in the bed, and, lying beside her, watched her sleep. 

When she woke, he was sitting beside her, holding the baby. She sat up, grimacing at the discomfort. “Feeling better?” he asked.

Arya looked into the baby’s face. She was sucking on Gendry’s finger. Arya gulped. “I don’t know why I cried like that,” she said, shyly, her voice gravelly, “It was all just, suddenly, so much. So real.”

“We have a daughter,” Gendry said, voice tinged with awe, “And she’s feisty. Like you.”

“Did you want a boy?” Arya asked, timidly casting her eyes between the baby’s face and his. Who am I? she wondered. She wasn’t timid. But right now, in this moment, it appeared that she was.

Gendry shook his head, “I make strong, bold, magnificent girls. Why wouldn’t I want another? And look at her—she’s got so much of you in her. Look at her eyebrow! Your’s does that. And her mouth pulls to the side slyly—like yours does—watch.” He ran one gentle finger along the baby’s cheek. Her mouth twitched like Arya’s often did when she was trying to mask herself and failing. “She’s got my hair, my ears—gods help her—and my nose, but your Stark grey eyes. She’s perfect.”

Arya remembered thinking that he’d cracked wide open when she’d returned from her first voyage. Watching him now, she felt herself doing the same. It felt awful and glorious at the same time. 

“What’s her name?” he asked, “I wouldn’t let them ring the bells until you’d woken up and we’d decided.” 

“Do you want her named for anyone? Your mum, maybe?” 

“My mum? Alys? No. She was a kind woman, but the baggage of her life isn’t what I’d wish on our daughter. What were you thinking?”

“Lyanna?” she sounded uncertain but it was the name she kept coming back to.

“After Jon’s mother? Your aunt who was supposed to marry my father?”

“Would that be strange for you? It’s a strong name in the North. Remember little Lyanna Mormont?”

“Vividly. She was ferocious.”

“So was my aunt. When Father and Uncle Benjen told us anything about her at all, it was always about how she liked to ride, and hawk, and hunt and joust and could best any of them. She broke all the rules of knighthood, entering tourneys under an assumed name. And when she fell in love she made sure she got what she wanted, even though it didn’t turn out happily for her in the end. She tried.”

Gendry’s eyes had turned melancholy, “You don’t…you know you’re not locked up here in my Tower of Joy, right, Arya? You’re still you.”

“I don’t feel like me right now,” she admitted, “But I know that. That’s not what I mean. Lyanna Stark was true to herself. Maybe not to anyone else—your father among them—and let’s face it—he wasn’t true to her either—you wouldn’t be here otherwise—but she knew who she was and who she wanted to be. So did Lyanna Mormont. I want that for our daughter.” She sounded decided now, all sense of tentativeness gone from her voice.

“Lyanna Baratheon it is, then,” he said, pressing a kiss onto the baby’s curled fist. He chuckled suddenly.

Arya flicked her eyes at him demanding, “What’s funny?”

Still chuckling to himself, Gendry said, “It’s not, really, I’ve just decided on her nickname.”

Arya raised an inquiring brow at him. He elaborated, “You were very busy and might not have noticed, but Lady Lyanna Baratheon of Storm’s End came into the world on a bolt of lightning. And there’s always been more than enough of that between you and I. So, here, Lady Baratheon,” he handed her the baby, “Take Lightning. I’m going to tell them to ring the bells for a week.”

“But…Gendry! No one will be able to sleep!” Arya called after him. 

He paused in the doorway, “Wait ‘til you hear the lungs on her! Neither will we.”

~~~~~~~

Maester Brymar had asked, almost immediately, if Arya intended to have any more children. She’d looked at him in horror demanding, “Why in the seven hells would you ask me a thing like that when I’m swollen and bleeding and bruised and fucking _sore_? Gendry’s smarter than to ask a thing like that and _you’ve_ earned all those ruddy chains!” 

“What am I smart about?” Gendry asked, coming into the room and seeing the rabid expression on Arya’s face.

Maester Brymar held up a soothing hand, glanced at Gendry and then resumed, “You were fortunate this time, my Lady, that’s all. There’s a reason you don’t bleed regularly—you likely never will. And because of the way you were injured all those years ago there’s a greater chance that a child could grow outside of where it’s supposed to. If you’d seen me before you became pregnant, I’d have advised against trying. I’m advising you now what circumstances prevented me from advising then.”

Gendry had sat down—hard—on one of the chairs. He’d stared Arya dead in the eyes before pronouncing, “There won’t be any more.” He looked to the Maester: “Stock enough moon tea to get us through the longest of winters—we know it works. I never asked…” his voice trailed off. He cleared his throat and, eyes pleading with Arya declared, “I love her so much. And I love you even more for making her with me. But we’ve been luckier than most since the day we met and we keep daring the gods. No more. Not ever.”

Arya felt relief wash over her. She’d never have to say it: he’d already decreed it. She wasn’t sorry she’d done it—she _had_ wanted to know what it was like—but she was already certain she’d never want to do it again. 

~~~~~~~

The best thing that could have happened to Fyffe Baratheon was the advent of her little sister. She’d been flirting dangerously with several of the stable boys and squires and having the consequences of following through laid so plainly before her proved an excellent deterrent. It also didn’t hurt that she was utterly smitten with Lyanna and spent as many and more of her days in the nursery as she could.

“At least she’ll have one woman smothering her with love,” Arya reflected to Gendry as she climbed into their bed one night. Arya knew with utter conviction that she loved Lyanna, but she couldn’t muster the all-consuming doting affection that seemed to be expected by the Stormlander women. Once again, she found herself at odds with the expectations of most of society. 

“That’s just always been Wildfire’s way, Arya,” Gendry reassured her, gathering her in his arms. “She snuggles everyone up tight so they know they matter.”

“I don’t.”

“No…,” Gendry smiled against her hair, “You show people that they matter by protecting them. Fighting for them. Avenging them. Returning to them,” he paused, then added hopefully, “By fucking them…?”

A smile spread across Arya’s face. Maester Brymar had advised her a week ago that she should start drinking the tea again if she intended to resume relations with His Lordship in the coming weeks. “I can’t, yet…” she said regretfully, “But you _did_ once ask…” she unlaced the neck of her nightshirt and pulled it open, lifting one round breast free. Eyeing her elongated nipple eagerly, Gendry raised his brow at her, questioning. “If I’m only going to be able to do this once, I thought I’d better not deprive us of any possible joy we might find in it,” Arya confessed, and she _was_ curious. It felt all kinds of ways when Lyanna’s mouth pulled at her nipples but she wondered if Gendry’s mouth would feel different. She caught the fingers he’d extended and said, “They’re different now, though. Gentle. No pinching. And absolutely no teeth.” He’d dipped his head in understanding, kissing the tips of her fingers. 

He stayed away from her nipples at first, just cradling and cupping and making her teats sway gently. That felt wonderful: the weight of them in the warmth of his hands. As his hot breath ghosted across her skin, Arya felt a shiver go down her spine. When Lyanna sucked, she could sometimes feel the pull of her insides contracting—akin to the spasms that accompanied flowering—but without any of the associated cramping—just a soft pleasantness. Gendry mouthed her breast, working his way closer to her nipple. She pressed her thighs together. This felt different, and it _was_ arousing. When his lips covered the bud of her nipple she arched into his hot mouth. He stilled, looking up at her, and she cupped the back of his head, encouraging. He lightly massaged the flat of his tongue against the underside of the nub and she sighed. He felt wetness against his left palm, and tasted her milk letting down into his mouth. He swallowed and her breath hitched in her throat at the suction his doing so created. He drank her left breast dry before licking and kissing his way across her chest to attend to her right breast. As his mouth fastened over that nipple, she took his cock in her hand and began stroking him. He breathed out, gulping against her breast briefly before resuming. He drank. Her hands tightened on him suddenly, her body underneath him quivering, and a flood of milk filled his mouth as a high-pitched sigh pulled itself between her lips. She’d peaked. Her hand still pumping him, he groaned, his seed spilling between them, over her thighs, belly, and the sheets. 

“Was that all you’d hoped it would be?” Arya asked as she stood at the washstand and he stripped the bed, tossing the sheets into the corner of the room and stretching new ones over the mattress.

He nodded enthusiastically, asking, “Did it feel all right? You…seemed…to enjoy it?”

Arya raised an eyebrow at him, “More than all right. A little like I was melting into your mouth at the end, but also sticky. Very sticky,” she acknowledged, swiping a cloth over and around her breasts, and scrubbing at her thighs. “Not having you has been hard. I mean, I know I _can’t_ have you and it’s like being injured—my body is telling me _very firmly_ that I **do not** want you. But you just keep doing all the things you do that _make_ me want you. And when I watch you with _her_…there’s even more ways that you make me want you, now. I didn’t think that was possible.”

Gendry felt a lump forming in his throat. It always caught him off-guard when she allowed herself to be tender, “It’s the same for me, you know,” he rasped, gathering her into his arms again and kissing her exhaustively as he maneuvered her back into their freshly made bed.


	4. Waning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry's older girls are grown and Arya's starting to feel antsy about her prolonged stay at Storm's End.

At fifteen-moons, as her parents sparred in the training ring, Lyanna Baratheon crawled away from Fyffe’s skirts to claim her first blade: a wooden practice sword lying abandoned in the sand. Arya’s water-dance suddenly suspended; her smile had never been more radiant than as she watched her daughter’s face fill with glee as she whacked at the sand, crowing with delight and brandishing her new toy. Gendry’s heart—as he turned to see what had made Arya pause and her face glow—had nearly burst, seeing the echoes of one in the other’s features. 

~~~~~~~

“I need to go,” Arya huffed to Gendry, winded after their vigorous coupling, “She’s two. I’m getting antsy.” 

Gendry rubbed a hand over his face. He’d known this was coming. She’d been mostly land-bound for nearly three years. He’d spent the past year-and-a-half fending off her leaving as long as he could with trips to King’s Landing and the various holdfasts of the Stormlands—even one unexpectedly productive expedition into Dorne.

No doubt with an eye to maintaining and strengthening his borders, Prince Quentyn had taken it into his head that one of Gendry’s elder daughters would make an excellent wife—his first having died in childbed two years previous with their ninth child. The night before they set out on the first leg of their journey across Shipbreaker Bay to Rain House—seat of House Wylde—Tytha had come to see Gendry and Arya and admitted to them that the trip would prove fruitless if the Prince desired her. 

“Cass Wylde and I are together,” Tytha announced, referring one of her ladies, a daughter of the vassal house they would soon be breaking their voyage with. “I know it’s not something that’s done formally, but it’s done. I won’t wed any man.”

“Does she feel the same way?” Arya asked. 

“She’s waiting outside. Shall I bring her in so you can ask her yourself?” 

Gendry had opened the door and beckoned the nervous young woman inside. She’d gone to Tytha immediately and taken her hand in an automatic gesture of reassurance and support. Seeing it, Gendry had smothered a smile as he exchanged a silent look of approval with Arya over the girls’ heads. 

“Snowsquall says that you care for one another?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“More than friends?”

“Very much more, my lord.”

“Is your family aware of your inclinations and affection?”

Lady Cass shook her head.

Thoughtful, Gendry advised, “You need to make them so while on this tour, but you both have my support.” 

“And mine,” Arya rose, smiling, “The Faith may not provide traditions for this sort of relationship, but I’ve been places where other faiths do. Should you one day wish to make such a commitment before the Old Gods, the weirwoods would bear witness as always, and, I suspect, wouldn’t object.”

Tytha threw herself at Gendry. He lifted his tall, leggy daughter off the floor, kissing her hair. “I hope you weren’t worried about telling me, Snowsquall.”

“I just wanted to be certain, before I did,” Tytha demurred, “And I am. Cass is _wonderful_,” she said beaming as she looked at her. Cass reddened. Tytha’s eyes—so like Gendry’s— were lit from within exactly the same way that his were when he gazed at Arya. “I finally understand what you said all those years ago,” Tytha confessed.

Arya raised an inquiring eyebrow at her. Tytha blushed, “I’m still taking your word for it that the world is round. But I don’t have to take your word about the rest of it anymore. When it’s love, it _is_ enjoyable.”

Gendry coughed; his eyes suddenly focused on something high in the rafters. Arya burst out laughing. 

Fyffe had entertained the notion of Dorne—to a point. But although she’d thought Sunspear “glorious”, the water gardens “delightful”, and the Prince, “Handsome, for someone older than you are, Papa,” she’d declined. Nevertheless, the trip had not been a waste for Dorne or the Stormlands: she’d met a hazel-eyed, black-haired nephew of the Prince’s at one of the many fetes and feasts that marked their visit. He followed them back to Storm’s End and had been paying court to her for nearly seven moons. His mother was a shrewd woman and though he was a younger son, she was determined that his marriage be advantageous. This sat tolerably well with Gendry—as a man-of-many-daughters, Gendry found himself negotiating with Aneuryn Martell’s mother in much the same way Sansa Stark’s advisors once negotiated her marriage to Podrick Payne. Unlike in the North, however, the Dornish had always recognized their daughters as worthy and capable inheritors of Houses and titles. Eventually it was agreed that the marriage would be celebrated on Fyffe’s sixteenth nameday and any children born to them would be Baratheons, not Martells. They would live on at Storm’s End. 

The boy—seventeen years old and completely enamored with Fyffe—cared about nothing more than making her happy. For the first time in more than a year, Arya dusted off her faces and practiced her skills in an entirely non-assassin-related capacity, spying on the young lovers when they were together and apart and ensuring that Aneuryn Martell was as good as he appeared. She was well-satisfied that he loved and respected Fyffe, but she privately advised Gendry that the sooner the pair were wed, the better. “Fyffe’s eager to be his wife. And he’s holding out surprisingly well—better than most his age would, I imagine. But she’ll wear him down eventually. He _wants_ to please her—and she him.”

Seeing him flounder at the idea of his daughter making herself bold to bed the boy, she’d clasped his shoulders and reminded him, “I was bold with you. You wanted to please me. And we’ve done very well together all these years.”

He thought about those words now. He thought about what he knew he wanted and what he didn’t want nearly sixteen years after they’d first acknowledged any sort of feeling for one another. What did he want the next sixteen years to look like? In a moon’s turn they’d host Fyffe’s wedding—he knew Arya wasn’t going anywhere before that happened. But that meant that he had two—_maybe three_—moons’ grace before she _would_ go. “What if…,” he asked hesitantly, “This time I came with you?”

Arya side-eyed him, her expression asking plainly if he was serious. He read the look and soldiered on, “Tytha’s been my de facto Hand on all defense, land, and law matters and disputes for years now. She knows the players on the board as well as I do. And the advisors admire her judgement—so do I. She’s steady and strategic, measured and tough when she needs to be. Fyffe will make merry—she’ll have plenty of excuses to do so, newly married—but you know she’s been managing the household since Tytha handed it over to her around the time Lyanna arrived. She’ll keep working to make everyone’s lives better...,” he trailed off. Arya knew all this. She was looking at him with one eyebrow raised. 

“And our daughter?” she asked.

“Could come with us?” he suggested. “I thought you’d likely go south this time. And she’s small. Easy to pack.”

Arya quelled his attempted levity with a look.

“A more southerly route _was_ the plan,” Arya allowed, her demeanor thoughtful, “Bran’s council would like me to meet with some people in Lys and Volantis. I was thinking just a shorter voyage to each and then back but if you came with me…maybe Naath or Zamettar afterwards? Are you sure? Winter is Coming.”

“Things are well in-hand now and the girls deserve the chance to spread their wings a little without me looking over their shoulders. I think it can be my turn now,” he added, not wanting to force the issue, “If you’ll have me?”

“I do remember vowing to the gods that I’d take you everywhere,” Arya deliberated, teasingly, “So I’ll have you,” she added, tilting her lips upwards and kissing him soundly. “I’ll have you,” she tongued his neck, “And have you,” she fastened her teeth around his nipple--his breath hissed between his teeth, “And have you,” her hand found him under the sheets. She had all of him and he had all of her. 

~~~~~~~

Fyffe and Tytha brought Aneuryn and Cass aboard Arya’s ship for a tour before it castoff. Gendry was watching Lyanna pulling herself up the ropes towards the main mast. She was nimble. Arya thought they’d likely be spending most of their time preventing her from climbing too high—like Bran—she realized, the thought oddly poignant. She heard Gendry cautioning, “That’s high enough, Lightning.” Turning, she watched her daughter launch herself off the ropes, giggling maniacally, to be caught safely in her father’s arms where she was squeezed tight and kissed repeatedly—a maneuver that she countered with smacking kisses of her own. Eventually Lyanna demanded, “Again!” and struggled to escape Gendry’s arms. He set her down, but before letting her go, crouched down to her level, making her meet his eyes as he instructed, “This is only a game for when mum or I are right here watching. Promise?” She nodded solemnly before the glint in her eyes reappeared and she was climbing again. Arya hid her smile behind her hand. Their daughter had no fear. She sent a silent prayer for the Mother’s Mercy. She finally understood what a trial she must have been for her own. 

Unusually, shortly after going below decks, Fyffe reemerged and hung her head over the railing; apparently suffering seasickness. “I don’t recall you ever having seasickness before,” Arya observed. 

“It’s not seasickness,” Fyffe confided, wiping her mouth. Arya looked at her in shock. 

“Already? That’s what the box of moon tea we gave you was for! So you could enjoy each other for awhile before…,” but the ecstatic look in Fyffe’s eyes brought Arya’s words to a halt. She remembered what it felt like wanting to carry her man’s child. It was evident that was all Fyffe wanted in the world. For the first time, Arya wondered if it was something—like the shape of her pointed-ears and vivaciousness—she’d inherited from her mother. She sent the woman a silent blessing for this child whose existence enabled Gendry to come with her this time. 

“Maester Brymar said it’s still too early to really say anything. But you won’t be here. And I wanted you to know.”

“Your father will be pleased for you. As I am,” Arya hugged her tightly. “Send us ravens and letters. They can find us where we’re headed. I can’t make any promises, but we might be back in time for the birth. Or shortly thereafter.”

Gendry had kissed Fyffe ecstatically upon hearing the news and clapped a solid hand on Aneuryn’s shoulder dictating, “Wildfire will want to do everything—it’s who she is—but don’t let her. Taking care of her is your job, but so’s taking care of the child. Her uncle and I did for her most of her earliest life and look how she’s turned out!” Blushing with suppressed pride, the boy had nodded, manfully. 

Tytha embraced them all before proceeding down the gangway, “It will all be here in good order when you come back,” she promised. 

“I’ve no doubts about that, Snowsquall. Not one,” Gendry confirmed, brushing a final kiss across her brow.

From the stern, Arya, Gendry and Lyanna waved until the shoreline receded, then turning to the prow they set their sights towards the Stepstones…Lys…Volantis…

Gendry rested his chin on Arya’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around them both, gazing out at the sea. Watching Lyanna’s grey-eyes sparkle with the reflected autumn sunshine off the waves, Arya had never felt more at home. 

_Et Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This series has been a surprising labour of love these past months. I want to thank everyone who's comments have been so supportive and inspiring as I've posted each section of this series. Many of your observations and questions have propelled me into working on other stories that I hope to share soon. I hope you all find this conclusion satisfying. Happy Canadian Thanksgiving!


End file.
